The original text of the Nihon Shoki etches Sukuna's body in remarkable concreteness: "one body with two faces, each turned away from the other; their crowns joined so that there is no nape; limbs on either side; knees, yet no hollows behind them and no heels." One torso, two faces set back to front, no nape where the heads meet, and limbs on each side—read plainly, four hands and four feet alike, an eight-limbed marvel. Yet most of the images that survive locally are carved as "two faces, four arms"—two faces, four arms, two legs. That the Shinsen Mino-shi records the founder of Nichiryūbu-ji as a "two-faced, four-armed stranger" belongs to the same strain, and the discrepancy between the textual description (eight limbs) and the iconographic tradition (four arms, two legs) is not to be overlooked in reading the Sukuna image. It was Enkū who raised that iconography into art. The seated Ryōmen Sukuna at Senkō-ji sets its two faces side by side rather than front and back, one wearing wrath, the other compassion. This form, salvation glimmering within fury, resonates with the belief that Sukuna was an incarnation of Guze or Senju Kannon. His historical reality demands caution. Naniwa no Neko Takefurukuma, named as his vanquisher, properly belongs to the section on Empress Jingū, so his placement in the Nintoku chronicle is itself anachronistic. That a Kannon-incarnation tale should attach to Nintoku's reign—supposedly before Buddhism's arrival—is likewise a later construction, and the view that the whole account is a fabrication of the editorial stage carries weight (Nagafuji Yasushi). Nagafuji reads Sukuna as the original deity of Mt. Kurai, a hero hidden away by the central histories, while Hōga Toshio traces him genealogically to the ancestor of the Hida no Miyatsuko. As for the monstrous body, Haga Susumu reads it as the misperceived and exaggerated gear—shin guards and the like—of Hida's mountain folk. The name, too, invites many theories. From the sound "Sukuna," some traditions argue a tie to Sukunabikona, and Ōbayashi Taryō offered a comparative-mythology framework treating Sukunabikona as Ōkuninushi's "second self." The motif of a god who appears in pairs chimes with the two-faced form of Sukuna. Some also overlay the image of the uncanny Sukuna onto the fact that ancient Hida was a singular "land of craft" that sent its artisans (Hida no Takumi) to the center, though there is no direct documentary link between the two. What is certain is that a single name has been handed down in opposite directions by center and province, and that this very split is what gives the being called Ryōmen Sukuna its shape.

The Tsuchinoko, as a mallet-bodied strange snake bounding along mountain paths, does not appear as a giant snake god, but as the very unease lurking in the grass at one's feet. When people see a snake, they normally expect it to be long and slender. However, in Tsuchinoko testimonies, that expectation is immediately shattered. The form—a body the size of a beer bottle, a short tail, a triangular head, and a body glowing gray or dark brown—betrays snake-likeness while still being a snake. Here, "yokai-likeness" is born. The anomaly of its appearance does not reside in flashy horns or flames, but in an awkward thickness that slightly overflows even when mountain dwellers try to explain it using everyday metaphors. The lore surrounding its movements also separates the Tsuchinoko from ordinary snakes. In the compilation by Higashishirakawa Village, characteristics like rolling, moving back and forth without slithering, standing vertically, and jumping are listed. While slithering is understood as the fundamental locomotion of a snake, the Tsuchinoko deviates from this: it moves straight like a stick, rolls like a cylinder, and springs like a coil. Because not only its shape resembles a mallet, but its movements take on a tool-like stiffness, the observer cannot instantly distinguish whether they "saw a living creature" or "something rolled by." This unidentifiable timeframe transforms the eyewitness account into a yokai tale. Stories of the Tsuchinoko's venom or swiftness serve to compress the dangers of the wilderness into a small body. While it is not massive enough to swallow a village like an Orochi, it is too eerie to approach and too fast to catch. The fact that both venomous and non-venomous theories are listed together is also important; the folklore does not converge into a single ecological encyclopedia, but wavers depending on the viewer's fear and sense of distance. The misidentification of real animals, expectations for unknown creatures, and wariness of dangers encountered in the mountains overlap under the same name. The Tsuchinoko culture of Higashishirakawa Village transformed the yokai from something to "see" into something to "search for." In the Tsuchinoko Festa, searching, treasure hunting, and hunting rallies are combined. This is not mere tourist commercialization. The yokai is not detached from the land and consumed; rather, through the village's topography, riverbanks, grass, and gatherings of people, the possibility that "it might be there" is re-enacted every year. The Tsuchinoko is not weak because it isn't caught. By not being caught, it invites all participants into an unfinished story. When viewed in the genealogy of snake-type yokai, the Tsuchinoko's position becomes even clearer. The Yamata-no-Orochi is a mythological calamity, and giant snakes easily become symbols of spiritual power dominating water or mountains. Tales of venomous snakes like the Shichiho-hebi (Seven-Step Snake) sharply indicate distance and taboos. In contrast, the Tsuchinoko does not sit at the center of mythology, but remains at the edges of testimony. It does not demand grand rituals, nor does it systematize curses; it simply multiplies through the short verbs of "saw," "fled," and "searched." Therefore, it meshes well with modern search culture. The very act of typing in a name, searching for images, and reading capture info has become an extension of the physical gesture of peering into the bushes on a mountain path. The inconsistency of its name also supports the Tsuchinoko's yokai nature. Names like Tsuchinoko, Tsuchi-hebi, Nozuchi-hebi, and Bachi-hebi do not fix the subject like a scientific name, but preserve the land where it was seen, the angle from which it was viewed, and the impression of the storyteller. Look at its thickness and it becomes a mallet; look at its movement and it becomes a snake; look at its ungraspable true nature and it becomes a cryptid. Precisely because the name wavers, the Tsuchinoko spread not as a single rare beast, but as a generic term for the inexplicable moments people encountered in the wilderness. Read in this form, the Tsuchinoko simultaneously possesses the romance of a cryptid and the narrative tenacity of a yokai. If one only asks whether it really exists, the answer quickly hits a dead end. However, when asking why people cannot forget that short, thick shadow, why villages turn it into a festival, and why they continue to place bounties on something that cannot be caught, the Tsuchinoko suddenly becomes a profound yokai. The small strange snake bounding down the mountain path sets human imagination in motion before providing evidence, making us go out once more to search for what we could not see.

A wind divinity anchored to Mount Tado, once feared as a one-eyed dragon god. Ideas of “divine wind” recorded in Edo-period sources intersected with local weather watching, leading sailors on the Ise Bay route and coastal villages to revere it deeply. Later it blended in folk belief with the smithing deity Ame-no-Mahitotsu-no-Kami, and shrines preserved doorless architecture so the god’s passage would not be hindered. It governs storms and rain, is invoked for bringing and stopping rain and for protection from maritime disasters, yet tales also stress its aramitama, a wild and fearsome aspect. Iconography varies: sometimes a dragon body, sometimes a one-eyed deity, but details remain uncertain.

A simian-form apparition modeled on Sekien Toriyama’s Konjaku Gazu Zoku Hyakki entry and natural-historical notes in Sino-Japanese texts. It appears on remote mountain paths, instantly voices the thoughts of woodcutters and travelers, and gauges their behavior. Disinclined to harm humans, it withdraws swiftly when sensing danger, in line with Sekien’s text. In folktales its figure varies by region—monkey, mountain man, tengu, or tanuki—but its core is “mind reading” and retreating at sudden noises. Its mind reading mirrors the other’s thoughts and repeats them, closer to a warning than provocation. It reads presences in mountain stillness yet proves vulnerable to the unexpected—sparks from a campfire or a flying splinter. The name Kakku is linked to the character 玃 through phonetic conflation, from which an independent yokai image emerged. Traditions span Chubu to Kanto, Tohoku, Chugoku, and Kyushu, telling of a being that measures the boundary between people and the otherworld in the mountains.

Based on Edo-period records and regional folktales. An aged char trout appears in the guise of a Buddhist monk and speaks to anglers. It often urges moderation, citing the temple’s domain or the pool’s lord, and departs quietly if given alms. Later it may be caught as a great char, where rice or rice cakes given as alms are found in its belly, revealing its identity. The motif reflects reverence for river and pool guardians and ideas akin to eel and other water deities. Depending on region, it appears as a harmless, didactic type, a warning type bearing deadly poison, or a salvific type that sacrifices itself to stop a levee breach, yet all embody folk norms that safeguard the boundary between waters and livelihoods.

At dusk on a mountain road, a branch creaks once overhead. You look up, but the canopy has already dissolved into darkness. The moment you begin walking again, laughter rings out and an enormous severed head plunges down with the speed of a well bucket. In this form, Tsurube-otoshi turns the simple act of falling into terror. Two scenes from the traditions of the former Sogabe Village, preserved in *Kuchi Tanba Kōhishū*, are especially important for understanding this image. The presence in the kaya tree at Hōki calls, “Is the night work done? Shall I lower the bucket? Creak, creak,” descending with laughter before climbing back into the tree. From an old pine at Tera, by contrast, a severed head drops and eats people. The detail that it stays away for two or three days after feeding makes it more than a passing illusion. It was imagined as a hungry predator lying in wait along the community's night roads. Placed side by side, the two stories reveal a method of attack. First, a voice or the sound of a branch draws the traveler's attention overhead. Then the thing closes the distance at once from the darkness of the canopy. After the attack, it rises again as though a rope were hauling up a well bucket. The name describes its motion more precisely than its appearance. The everyday movement of a bucket at a familiar well, transferred to an old tree at night, becomes a dreadful question: what is about to fall onto the person below? The giant severed head is not Tsurube-otoshi's only form. Hokuriku traditions also record a being that drops the bucket itself from a tree, one that forces travelers into a riddle-like exchange, and one that carries anyone who touches it into the sky. The head is a forceful image connecting the man-eating traditions of Tanba with modern yokai art, but it cannot stand for every regional account. The form described here brings one strand of the wider tradition into focus: Tsurube-otoshi as a predator hidden in an old tree. Nor can its difference from Tsurube-bi be decided by appearance alone. The early-modern Tsurube-oroshi and Sekien's Tsurube-bi center on uncanny fire descending from a tree. The severed-head form instead centers on voice, sudden descent, and predation. Even so, both inhabit old trees and move up and down like a well bucket. No source shows a flame simply transforming into a face, but the evidence is equally insufficient to call the traditions unrelated. A sounder reading is that a shared older name and motion acquired different bodies in different local narratives. Mizuki Shigeru's 1992 original painting *Tsurube-otoshi* clearly embodies the modern impression of an enormous face appearing in a tree. A giant head communicates danger immediately and makes the instant of descent easy to visualize. It was therefore more readily remembered in manga, encyclopedias, and three-dimensional figures than an invisible voice or an ordinary bucket. Yet returning to the local tales after seeing the face lets us hear what the picture cannot show: a question about finished night work, the creak of a rope, the movement of leaves, and a presence drawing closer from somewhere above. Tsurube-otoshi's true domain is not the giant face alone. It is the instant in which a person cannot help but look up.